


Next To You

by NegansOtherWife



Series: Sing Me A Song [4]
Category: The Walking Dead (Comics), The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Chill Negan, Drabble, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Talking, Zombie Apocalypse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-02
Updated: 2018-04-02
Packaged: 2019-04-17 01:40:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14177784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NegansOtherWife/pseuds/NegansOtherWife
Summary: In which words ruin a moment, so there are none.





	Next To You

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is near and dear to me, as someone in a long-distance relationship, I channeled a lot of what I go through into these characters. It's not always "rainbows and butterflies" in a relationship and I wanted to write that. 
> 
> It takes compromise! (I couldn't resist.)

“So, what are you wearing?” Negan’s voice seeps through the speakers of the ham radio, cut up by bits of static. 

“Negan, behave!” Grabbing the mic somewhat hastily, you hiss into the receiver, privy of eavesdroppers. These were open channels that anyone could tune into, the idea of someone overhearing Negan's flirtatious taunts…well, that made your cheeks burn. “Someone could be listening to us.”

“Calm down, bird!” His soft laughter reaches your ears and you can’t help but stare at the radio almost wistfully. “I’m just kiddin’."

You had the entirety of the radio room at Greenfield to yourself. But really, this was nothing new. It was roughly 11’ock, almost midnight, and the entirety of the compound knew this was the time you’d carved out of your busy schedule to talk to Negan. Like clockwork, each night, you’d turn to channel four.  Sometimes you’d be greeted with the sounds of his soft whistling, other times—the times that you favored and treasured the most—he’d quietly be singing for you.

“Sure you are,” You gently tease. The smile on your face could light the entirety of Virginia for a day or two, “you’re not in the least bit,” Your voice lowers to a whisper, “ _horny_.”

“Well, well.” You regret it as soon as you say it, knowing full well that he’d tease you for your choice of wording. His voice lowers to a sensual purr. “I do believe this has turned into my preferred kind of conversation. My naughty, little bird.” 

“Oh, hush!” A benefit of this long-distance relationship, you could actually do it for him. Your fingers reach for the knob that controls the volume. 

He grumbles, fully chastised. “Bet you’re as frustrated as I am.”

“A little,” You relent. There really hadn’t been time to explore your new relationship before Negan had returned to The Sanctuary. A handful of make-out sessions and a few gropes here and there had left you both panting—aching, for each other. 

“We wouldn’t be having this problem if Regina wasn’t such a _goddamn_ cock-blocker.” 

“She means well, Negan. How would it look to the others if I skipped out of my training a month early? Besides, I agreed to it, remember? If you want me at the factory, I need to make sure all my shit is in order first. I need your men to view me as a competent leader.” His only response is a sigh, but time spent on the radio these past several weeks had made you more attuned to his vocal queues. You could sense the slight agitation and anxiousness all rolled into one, the calm before the storm. Practically undetectable to others, but not you. 

You attempt to change the subject. The two of you had gone back and forth on this topic, and yet, Negan was as relentless as ever. “How was your day, baby?”

“I love when you call me that.” He admits, completely ignoring your question. His tone is quieter, lessened by a vulnerability. 

Softly humming in inquiry, he answers you: “ _Baby_. I love how it falls from your lips, soft and sorta shy.”

Regina’s words ring in your ears. Her blatant warning of Negan’s manipulative tactics, his violent mannerisms, as you promise him: “I’m not going anywhere, baby.”

* * *

“Hey.” Your brow puckers at his short greeting.

One of the things you loved about Negan was his bravado. When his eyes were on you, he made you feel as if you were the only person in a room, and when he spoke, well, that was the cherry on your metaphorical sundae. His words, the soft lisp and the drawl they encased within them, they could incite a fire within you. 

“Hey yourself.” Propping your head upon your forearms to settle in for the next twenty minutes or so, you query, “How was your day?”

“Okay.”

“Okay,” You echo, “that’s it?”

“Same ol’ shit, really. Fuckers on guard duty keep fuckin’ shit up. Wish I had someone as competent as you here.” For some reason, the intended complement doesn’t have the desired effect you thought it would. 

He sounds distracted when he asks: “What’d Regina have you do today?”

Your back straightens like a spring. “Maps, ugh—! It’s so unfair, Negan. How many times do I have to go over the Norfolk area before my head threatens to self-destruct? I mean it’s ridiculous, it’s too far out to even think of sending a team. Right?”

Pausing for his input, you’re met with silence on his part. You call out unsure if you’d lost the connection. Mid-inspection of the radio, his voice cuts through the silence in the room.

“Sure it’ll work out in the end, doll.” So despondent, almost unattached. 

Doll?

“Is there something bothering you,” His silence practically bleeds through the speakers, potent and heavy, “you can tell me.” 

“Nothing's bothering me, Y/N. It's just..."

"Go on," You urge him.

"I’m a grown man, Y/N.  I can’t be holed up on the radio every night—I’ve got shit to do.”

You can’t help but take his blunt admission personally, maybe too personally. 

“Go on, Negan. We’ll talk another night, you’re busy.”

He pauses for a moment. “You sure, bird. I can shoot the shit a little while longer, least till Simon get’s back with the numbers from Hilltop.”

“Yeah, I’m sure.” Your heart becomes heavier with each word. You’d been waiting all day for this moment. 

“Thanks, bird. I’ll cal—” Your trigger finger hits the power button on the radio, cutting him off midsentence. 

* * *

“You sure you’re okay?” 

“Yes, Negan.” After taking some time to consider it, you could admit that you'd overreacted last night. It was childish of you to demand his attention and then throw a tantrum when you didn't get it. He really was trying, and you couldn't fault him for that. 

Your mind perks up with the news that you’d been so eager to deliver the other day. How fleeting was your mind, you’d almost forgotten?  “Michelle’s throwing me a farewell party. She’s going to make my favorite too, apple pie.” You gush with genuine delight.

“Someone loves pie.”

You shake your head in agreement until realizing that he can’t see you. “It’s my favorite and you haven’t lived until you’ve had it the way Michelle makes it, she sprinkles candied lemon shavings on top. Weird, but good. ”

“Sounds fucking tasty.” He agrees.

“You should try some,” You can’t help but to hedge. “Do you think you’ll be able to come? It’s not for awhile, so maybe you can find the time to make the drive up.” 

“I’ll see what I can do.”

* * *

“Do you have to go?” Your voice is low as you wait for his reply on the other line.

“Yeah, bird. I’ll try to call tomorrow."

He doesn’t. Or the next day, and the one after that.

It isn’t until the following week that you hear from him.

* * *

“Bird, I’m so sorry.” He sounds so broken. “Pick up, honey. I know you’re there.”

He takes in a shuddering breath.

“Please, Y/N.”

The small plea almost breaks your resolve. You want so badly to rush to him, comfort him, and take away the pain and stress that seeps into his words with every syllable.

But it’s not fair to you. 

You deserve so much more than incomplete promises and unexplained silence. You were more than that.

 _You accept the love you think you deserve._ Chanting the mantra to yourself, your resolves slowly hardens. 

The rasped pleadings of Negan follow you out the door. 

* * *

 _“I always let you down, stupid things I do. I’m far from good, it's true._ ” You hadn’t meant to be walking by the radio room, but here you were. Pushing the door slightly ajar, your brows furrow trying to determine where those lyrics are from. 

You prided yourself on your extensive music taste. 

 _“There's something about the way that you always see the pretty view._ ”

The radio's display emits a soft glow in the room. 

**Channel 4**

Maybe you’d left it on last night. You’d been so emotional, in a haste to leave the room, you must’ve forgotten to power down the equipment.

Your finger twitches, an independent appendage, as it decides to hit the ‘talk’ button before your mind can even decipher what it's doing.

The singing stops. “Bird? Is that you?”

You hate how hopeful he sounds. 

 _Weak_.

You did that.

“I’m here, Negan.” You lip quiver for some indiscernible reason. “Where’s that song from? I think I know it. Imagine—something?” It’d been so long. The members of the band were probably dead anyway. Tragic. 

“My little songbird,” Against your better judgment, a fragile smile becomes poised upon your lips, “I’m sorry.”

“I know you are, baby.” Traitorous tears begin to fall. First one, then several more. So much so, they begin to cloud your vision, wetting your cheeks as you softly weep. Negan carries on the conversation, unbeknown, as heavy sobs begin to rack your body.

Had you given away your heart so quickly? Regina’s warnings play instantly as if they’ve been triggered by a silent alarm.

“…and I’ll be at your farewell party. How’s that sound?”

Your hands fumble with the device, before clearing your throat so that nothing gives away your distress when you say: “I’d love that, Negan.” 

* * *

Negan didn’t come. 

You're going away party had come and passed and he hadn’t shown up. Gavin had managed to make a brief appearance on the way to another outpost but that had been the extent of visitors. 

You tried not to let the hurt show on your face. 

The sympathy in his eyes is dizzying. You don't need pity. You need answers and Negan. “How about I pick you up my way back? I know Mere will be happy to see you, Y/N.”

The thought of seeing Meredith after so long makes you temporarily forget about the hurt in your heart, which gradually settles atop the surface, like fog to a lake.

* * *

“ _When you play it hard,_ ” Gavin had requested that you’d wait for him by the main gate, so the following morning, after a bout of tearful goodbyes, you sat outside the entryway, enjoying the quiet that would soon come to an end, “ _and I try to follow you there._ ”

“ _It's not about control…_ ” Although, you weren’t even sure if you wanted to return to the factory at this point. How easy would it be to slip back behind the metal gate? Forget this ever happened. Never pass the radio room again, you could take the other staircase to get to your bedroom.

“ _But I turn back when I see where you go_ ,” You always sang when you were anxious. Hell, when you were scared, even nervous. Everything in between. It was your way of coping. But it seemed, no matter what lyrical made its way past your lips, nothing could come close to soothing you now.

To stay or go?

It seemed fate would be making the decision for you. 

A slightly rusted, muted gray truck pulls up slowly to the gate. It’s not Gavin’s.

Wordlessly, you gather your things. Hoisting them into the back before sliding into the passenger's seat. Somehow, this outcome is more disappointing then yesterdays. 

There are no words, no reassurances or even an apology. So for the next several miles, the cab of the car is filled with a suffocating silence.

“Was it something I did?” Your heart races a mile a minute fueled by your anxious thoughts. He’s here but at the same time, he isn’t. “Do you not…want to be with me?”

Negan curses. He even has the nerve to look genuinely affronted. “Nothing you could ever do would make me wan’a leave, bird.”

“Then what—? What made you just, throw me aside without a second glance,” You can’t help but to interrogate. 

“I feel guilty, Y/N.” The car comes to a sharp stop.

“For what?”

“Loving you.” His pained confession makes your heart burst.

“Baby,” Your hushed, urgent tone draws his gaze to yours, “you never have to feel sorry for loving me…and neither do I. They’d want us to be happy,” Clearing your throat to rid it of the emotion you're in danger of choking on, you continue, “where ever they are. But, I’m sorry it still hurts.” Sometimes you can’t just will away someone else’s pain. No matter how much you want to. It’s a battle that belongs solely to them. 

This isn’t really how you’d pictured declarations of love, too soon and emotional. But all the same, it felt right.

“Lucille.”

“What, you mean—?”

“No, _Lucille_.” His gaze sears into you and through you, almost as if he’s looking at someone else. “The real Lucille.”

“Negan, you never mentioned…” Her actual name. Everything made so much sense now.

“It was her birthday.”

“When?”

“The day before last.”

“I’m sorry.” Because you genuinely are, it’s no excuse for how he’s treated you, but it’s a justification all the same. 

Grasping your hand with his own, he continues, “I forgot it, actually. That hasn’t happened since, _before_ , Y/N. But you're all that fills my head now. She got me through shit— _life_ —and I gave her nothing. I don’t want to forget her, Y/N, she doesn't deserve that. ”

Pulling him against your small frame, which nearly vibrates with his sobs. You hold him until there’s nothing left but tremors. It’s so scary to witness—but it’s absolutely glorious in the next moment—the way all of his walls crumble. “No one’s asking you to, sweetheart.”

“I love you.” _Then why is there so much hurt embedded between the words when you say it?_ “I’m not perfect, bird. I’ll forget things, get angry.  You'll get angry. Hell, we’re gonna be working together, there's no way of determining how that shit'll work out. I’ve gotta treat you like one of my men.”

You’d expect nothing less from him, and you tell him so. 

“It’s just,” You do everything you can to calm him. Smooth your hand through his hair, squeeze him tighter against you. His residual tears soak into your cotton shirt, making you itch with something else entirely as you wait for him to continue, “will you still love me?”

“Look at me, Negan.” He lifts his head from your shoulders. You can’t help but wipe away the tears from his eyelashes. 

“I want you to make love to me.” It’s definitely not the words he was expecting. 

“Here?”

“Right here.” You begin to nimbly undo the buttons of his shirt. “Do you remember what I said? The night you asked me to be yours?” 

He rights himself fully, slightly bemused, allowing you access to his belt as you answer your own question. “I said once: that sometimes you don’t need words. They cheapen the moment.”

Shucking your bottoms you climb atop his lap, “I’m going to show you how I feel about you, and you’re going to show me too.”

“Are you sure—?”

“Show me you love me. Right now.” The sound of his zipper being drawn down seems to get his hands unstuck, from where they'd laid limp at his side. They travel the expanse of newly exposed flesh, possessing and squeezing, as he clutches you against him. It's a flurry of hands. Each touch elicits a gasp from you, a shuddering breath from him before the tension becomes unbearable. 

The two of you work to remove the remaining barriers. 

Your hands entwine as you lower your self onto his aching length. Head cradled against his chest as he becomes fully seated within you. You let your bodies speak, let them say all the things that are meant to be said. 

He draws your sadness to the surface of your flushed skin before it meets its end, consumed and swept away in waves of sensual passion. 

Climbing higher, the velocity of which your release races towards you, rings in your ear as you grasp his damp palm tighter. He pushes your shirt and the cups of your bra aside, rendering you without thought. Your head is a blissful husk, nothing but him matters at the moment.

You want to devour every detail.

The condensation against your fingers as you grip the window, the angle in which he moves his pelvis against yours. The fullness that occupies your weeping sex. 

Your whining plea is met with his tightening grip, pressing every inch of your slick skin against his. Somehow it's the intimacy of the moment that pushes you over the edge. The way his thumb rubs comforting circles just about the curve of your hip. The softness of his lips as they caress the birthmark on your shoulder.

In his arms, you fall apart, only to be put whole once again. 

“I’m sorry, bird.”

“I know,” You kiss away the tears that fall. 

**Author's Note:**

> My Tumblr: https://negansaysyouearnwhatyoutake.tumblr.com


End file.
